Does it really matter?
Pasta Hawrrabbiata
There was a car parked at the gate of the usually empty cottage down the road from us, so I swapped the hope of garden apples for the possibility of a Giant Puffball. I trudged over the field, the recent rain had made it very mucky so picking a pathway through the less squelchy bits meant I had to concentrate. The plastic bag in my back pocket snagged on the barbed wire as I climbed over the fence, at least I’d remembered to bring one.
I have am often forgetful, have an unwavering reliability to be late, I work in slightly disorganised chaos and am easily distracted. These habits or flaws show themselves up in other ways too; turning up late at school drop off AND pick up, forgetting my towel when out for a swim or re-reading the same paragraph of my book 5 times as my distracting thoughts carry me off elsewhere.
When Cillian (our eldest) was a baby and we were navigating the utter madness that is new parenthood; the disbelief that we were now sole carers for a human and trying our hardest to create a nurturing home. I remember my sister-in-law said something which alleviated my stress and consequently has helped me live more lightly since; to consider, does it really matter?
Does it really matter that he’s wearing odd socks, that he doesn’t want to eat his dinner or that he wants to be snuggled all night? I apply this to all things; give yourself some slack, wander outside of the social norms and niceties, some etiquette is wildly outdated! Does it matter if I get covered in mud? Absolutely not. No apples, no worries, I’ll find something else.
The fields surrounding our house are mostly green dessert, devoid of diversity and boring but beyond them there’s a little glade, a tiny pocket of life packed with alder, ash and hawthorn, a stream with rushes and gorse covering the boggy upland. As I approached I saw thrush in the trees, a flock of long tailed tits, a buzzard coolly heading off elsewhere and a noisy jay.
Having searched in vain for the Giant Puffball I turned my attention to my favourite, an Sceach Gheal, Hawthorn. This special tree is adorned with red haw berries right now and I started to pick them gently, thanking the tree. I started thinking about nature knowledge, respect and connection. I’m sure a whole week in school could be easily filled with learning all about Hawthorn; a field trip, gathering berries, sketching the trees, talking folklore and faries, remedies, recipes, customs, literature, song and historic references and considering it's contemporary importance for hedging and biodiversity, the opportunity to tie into so many relevant subjects. Education plays on my mind a lot, I start to think of solutions, distracted again, planning.
I hurry back home to my notebook and start scribbling.
How to make Haw into something everyday? At uni I was a terrible cook, but one of my favourite things to make was Pasta Arrabbiata which consisted of a packet of Tesco fresh pasta and a pot of arrabbbiata sauce-cheap fast food for alcohol soakage!
Hawrrabbiata?!
I was lucky to get a beautiful delivery of serrano chillis from Ross Hazel Farm in Meath-they were the most picture-perfect little things, thank you Lynsey.
500g Haws, picked, washed and snipped off the stalks with scissors
300ml red wine (a forgotten end of bottle)
2 garlic cloves
1-2 red chillis finely chopped
Tsp sugar
Tsp salt
Tblsp tomato puree
Tblsp balsamic
75ml water
In a medium pan over a medium heat simmer the haw in the red wine for around 20 minutes until softened then push through a sieve, use a dough scrapper or a spoon to push all the mushy insides through. Discard the stones and skins. Clean the pan and put pack on a medium heat with a couple tablespoons olive oil, add crushed garlic and cook for a few minutes then add the chilli and cook for another minute then add the haw mixture and all the rest of the ingredients. Cook for around 20 minutes until thickened. Serve with pasta and top with parmesan.
